3This seems sorta story-ish rather than poem thought...I just don't like poems and I'm actually writing it...
Tracing art
I trace lines, curves, circles.
"Good night big brother!"
With the best writing I can do
I trace lines, curves, circles
I draw and paint
A smile for you, brother
A yellow face with a big grin
I leave it and go to bed
He comes when the moon is high
He comes tired but proud
He saved a patient
He reads my letter and smiles
I am on the ground, dirty
People laugh at my suffering
I just go back home
I trace lines, curves, circles.
"Good night brother."
No smile, no color.
He reads and he stays
Exhausted on the bed
I lie there and trace
I trace lines, curves, circles
"Good night brother."
Fake happiness was noticeable
He reads and frowns
"Tell me anything."
I didn't say anything
He leaves to work
I stay and time stops
Time moves slowly
A wave of pain
A thousand swords
A thousand knifes
On my back they are buried
What I trace is not art
"Good night."
He frowns again
More pain, more stress
Another wave hits
I trace art, line, circle, curves
"Good night big brother!"
I color everything
I draw, I show my emotions
He comes and reads it
Perfect art, perfect writing
He smiles and stores it
"Happy birthday, brother!"
It's NOT incest.
I just remember my brother's birthday that has passed by like months ago but I still remember how happy he was when I fixed his bass and I was happy.
He won't read this of course but I don't really care, I just felt like expressing it.